


Taming the Void

by JennStar



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV), The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (TV)
Genre: 1963, Art, Bachelorhood, Don't throw out those 1940s newspapers just yet., Eccentricity galore, F/M, Free Spirits, Fun with paint!, Introducing "Decliana", Modeling, NYC, Non-Canon Relationship, Problem-Solving, Reformation, Romance, Soul-Searching, Struggling waitress, hidden identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 20:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19258990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennStar/pseuds/JennStar
Summary: The adventures of an oversexed, eccentric artist who meets an underpaid traveler/perpetual woman on the run and receives the shock of a lifetime.A ode to one of my favorite romantic comedies that veers somewhat dark at times, but nowhere too perverse.This story is not delving into the The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel because Declan Howell was only featured in that one extremely enjoyable episode (and I don't care for the show). Feel free to suspend your disbelief regarding his age and appearance as it's no longer the 1950s.





	1. Chapter 1

She modeled for him no questions asked.

It was a treat to paint her. He was used to painting abstract works, but he saw her and was inspired to branch out of his comfort zone. It had been so long since he had had any semblance of a relationship with a woman. Well, if working relationships counted. She reminded him of no one he knew. Certainly not his wife; definitely not his past girlfriends, a gem among fidgety, fickle rocks.

She was cool and serene, never moved a muscle. Strong in a quiet way; feminine in a novel way. He could not explain what her nearness did to him. But he had to staunch the feelings pouring out, stem the flow. He should know how – he was used to self-treatment of injuries after ultimately pointless scuffles. It was the artistic temperament's fault, not his.

Never before had he felt actual guilt for drinking while she remained sober whenever they worked together. Made him think sappy, poetic thoughts that rhymed. He felt at peace around her, though it was a feeling he was completely unfamiliar with. A blindingly wild temperament and fervent desire to accomplish more, more, more stood in his way.

Sometimes he wanted her to leave, but he hadn’t the willpower to let her go. She wasn’t even his in that way. She was a…what was she, a colleague? Definitely not an assistant. Not anymore anyway.

 

He hired her the day after assessing her at a hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon turned 4am hideaway for the unwashed and unwed, where he nursed a subpar hamburger (not her fault) and French fries doused in vinegar. It was a windy Thursday, carrying with it the odor of gobs of pomade that turned many a pompadour into a helmet and Aqua-Net seeping through sturdy hairscarves that would treat tiny hairs like taffy upon removal. Thursdays held the distinction of most melancholy day of the week. On a Thursday his wife up and left. Luckily she was never able to conceive properly and so there were no children to worry about not seeing, longing for painfully.

She poured him coffee, sat down, head in her hands one table over. She was wearing a short pink dress with a white apron, her uniform. It looked absurd with her coloring and demeanor. She belonged in blue, wrapped in cornflower or ultramarine. Or Phthalo turquoise. Prussian blue...

Her eyes, he’d noticed, burned with frustration, resignation. It was the same story – she didn’t belong there. She wasn’t valued. She was probably hit on mercilessly. Such unseemly behavior had been his fault once upon a time, going on benders, not knowing who was what or, occasionally, where he was, or what harm he'd accomplished. Hell, that was last Wednesday.

Back to the girl – woman, really – who appeared younger than her actual age, much too young to be broken. Likely unmarried because if so she would have a home to run.

He casually leaned to the left, slouched to the right in his somewhat squeaky booth to catch a glimpse of her left hand for confirmation. He needn’t have done so.

 

He had been lucky. He had grown up somewhat privileged, slept through private school, excelled in art school, had connections through the wazoo. But he had abandoned them long ago. Now his best friends were paintbrushes, taut canvases full of promise, stained shirts and emptiness. Alcohol filled it sometimes. Oh, him again – he wandered so much in his mind, always back to him, selfishly.

He was always clueless as to why some girls refused his company, even if just for a night. For a toss, a joyride in the sack. He knew they were fair game. Some were fine blondes with red lips, others redheads with wide eyes and freckles. Black haired beauties with birthmarks. Sometimes they weren’t the prettiest specimens, as he would discover upon waking. Smeared makeup and clinginess didn’t help matters.

This was an unusual situation as he had never encountered a woman in the afternoon. Or at least had the urge to approach one. All he knew was that he was middle-aged, emotionally inept and hideously oversexed. But he felt compelled. How should he introduce himself to a downtrodden waitress? And as pretty as she was, was this a step down the ladder on his scale of lovely ladies? Oh, he wanted to make her smile, though.

This was the type of girl he could see himself running away with, if only he were not so resigned to his degenerate fate.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to New York, Juliana. 
> 
> Again.

Two months had passed since she woke up in another world, lying on a bench in Harlem, a blue streamer stuck in her hair. Juliana briefly acknowledged that her jumpsuit had been soaked in blood and that the bullet had passed straight through. It must have been left back in her old world.

 _Enjoy the souvenir, John_ , she thought perversely. Oh the things he would have to contend with now. Not that it was any of her concern anymore.

 

The streamers were everywhere. She sensed such a positive vibe she was almost bowled over, if not for the deepening pain.

She woke up again and began to trudge to the nearest emergency room, which must have been at least a mile away. A cab driver pulled over and shouted at her to get in. When she refused to due lack of funds, he frantically rushed out and gently guided her into the back seat himself.

“No charge, Miss. Don’t you worry.”

She clutched her shoulder, trying to conceal the fact that it was a gunshot, for how could she explain such a thing? She looked up at him when they stopped at a red light. “I was shot.” Then she passed out once more.

Juliana awoke to bright lights, the smell of burnt coffee, and a crunching noise. She turned to see the cab driver sitting at her bedside, perusing the _New York Post_ , a cup of the sub-par hospital brew perched nearby. She quickly glimpsed at the headlines and gasped, even though she knew exactly in which world she landed.

“Have you been celebrating?” he asked. 

And thus the lies came about:

“Oh, yes. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” 

“This is really the place to be if you want to absorb the feeling without having to be in the throng.”

The cabbie went to throw out the newspaper, but only her injury would stop her from pulling it out of the trash herself.

“Oh, sir, if you don’t mind, I’d love to keep the _Post_ nearby. I’ll probably be here a few days.”

“Sorry about that. How inconsiderate of me!” He straightened out the pages and handed it to her.

“I don’t know how to thank you…”

“Yael,” the heavily accented man responded. He placed his hat back on his balding head. “You just get better now.”

She smiled and he couldn’t help but grin in return. “I’ll have to be getting along now…sorry, and your name is?”

She hesitated. “It’s Janice.”

“Miss Janice. God be with you.” She nodded and he left the room.

She scanned the contents of the newspaper, and all the pieces fell into place.

When asked, Juliana provided the hospital with a fictitious name that made her cringe.


	3. Drinks Or Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My little story continues.
> 
> Did I ever mention that Declan Howell looks a hellova lot like John Smith? He does.

After debating with himself for less than half a minute, Declan wandered over to the waitress's table. She still had her head trapped in trembling hands.

“Excuse me, miss. I can’t help but notice your obvious distress."

That voice...

Juliana dragged her eyes up reluctantly, shrank back and gasped, struggling to contain her horror.

John Smith?

John Smith! 

How... _How?_

He pulled the trigger on his standard issue pistol just as she was in the process of meditating her way out of certain torture and eventual death. Although he only wounded her in her shoulder - the infamous  _broken wing_ he once referred to it as, comically more weakened than before - the newly minted Reichsmarschall was obviously not through tormenting her. 

The brief but effective electroshock treatment he prescribed for her had rewired her circuits: She came to in the dingy cell immensely disoriented yet in possession of a sense of perfect rightness. There was no other way to describe it.

At last, she was finally ready to escape from that hellhole. That hellish demon of a man.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh…”

She scrambled to get out of the booth, mouth like cotton, but Declan halted her with a hand upon her forearm. She instinctively yanked her arm away and clutched her wounded shoulder. She winced.

“What the hell? What did I do?” he demanded, in the most congenial way possible. The sudden tears trickling down from her terror-stricken eyes bemused him.

“J-John? It is you, isn’t it?"

Declan felt his face pale. He stepped back himself but almost as suddenly launched himself into her space.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong, lady. My name is Declan Howell. You have heard of me, yes?"

Juliana clutched the backrest of the tomato red booth. “Oh. N-no,” she shook her head in a cloud of confusion. “I apologize, sir. You so resemble someone I used to know…”

She pivoted back to face front and smoothed her apron.

Declan sighed and shrugged, oil paint-smudged hands sliding into his pockets. He then noticed her nametag.

“Hello, Janice.” He cocked his head to the side. “If I may say so, you don’t look like a Janice at all. Far too…” he inspected her as if she were a sculpture of a half-naked woman (he always saw through their clothes somehow; that is how he viewed the fairer sex, tragically). “Far too elusively pretty.”

She blushed and looked away, wiping at her eyes. “Thank you…I think.” She folded her hands and tilted her head up to study him in return.

“You think? You think?" He was astounded. “Have you seen yourself?”

Juliana felt immediately uncomfortable. She wanted to storm up to her boss and throw her apron in his sweaty face. But she had keep this job, no matter how miserable and soul-sucking it was. And she desperately needed the income. Though she had to admit, her looks and sweet demeanor were at least somewhat helpful in securing her position. She should be used to the attention after three months waiting tables at the Moonlight Diner on West 72nd Street. Men were men, after all. But this one…

“I’m sorry to cut this short sir, but my break is over. I need to get back to work.” 

To say he was disappointed was an understatement. She started to scooch out of the booth, hoping he'd take the hint. 

"Might I borrow that steno pad of yours?"

 She grimaced. “What for?”

“What time does your shift end?”

"Why?”

His only response was to pierce her with those unsettling, entrancing green eyes - impossible to forget in any world. The air grew heavy. Her back ached for a muscle loosening hot bath, followed by a few moments of midday shut-eye in her second-hand twin bed with the tattered calico quilt.

And yet she had to determine whether this Declan was genuine or not.

Subterfuge via siesta. 

“In an hour,” she sighed.

“Meet me at The Irish Rose when you’re finished. You know it?”

“No, sorry.”

He nodded towards her apron pocket. Another split second decision. She handed over her pad of paper and worn out pencil. After some quick scribbling, he pushed the paper towards her. It was complete chicken scratch. She held it up to the light.

“Is that an eight or a six?”

“How clever of me, confusing you already! That's seventy- _eighth_ street. Off Amsterdam.”

She eyed the information carefully, nervously, as if just handed a pop quiz by an impatient teacher. She should refuse.

“Declan, is it? I don’t know that I feel up to going to a bar tonight,” she said dismally.

“Honestly, I don’t know if I do, either. But I’m good company, nonetheless. And you, my dear, look as if you could really use a drink.”

Did they stock sake?

“But…” Her eyes crawled up to his. _Drinks or death_. “...I would have to go home and change. I look awful.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I could paint you like that!” he blurted out, instantly regretting it. He could never paint her in pink. He didn't even like pink. Abhorrent color. 

Juliana's eyebrows rose and she allowed a smirk to soften her stressed out features. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am. You see sometimes my mind goes places and I just say things,” he rolled his eyes and rocked on his ankles, hands safely returned to their pockets. "Ever do that?"

He would have to go back to his filthy apartment, locate the borax and scrub the life out of those equally filthy nails.

It paid to be clean and presentable every once in a while.

"Not as a rule." But she certainly _felt._

Two emotional wrecks. Whatever could go wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> This is generally rated M, but occasionally I will issue a warning should choppy waters lie ahead (taboo subject matter/possible triggers) in case you want to abort.


End file.
